


i got my mind made up this time

by stonesnuggler



Series: SFLN: Stromes From Last Night [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Casual Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drinking, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, M/M, One Night Stands, Recreational Drug Use, Sibling Incest, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 14:45:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13906257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonesnuggler/pseuds/stonesnuggler
Summary: (412): He said he doesn’t believe in cuddling. Can you come get me?__________________________________________________________________________________________________“Go turn the light off,” Ryan nudges. “You’re still on top of the covers and I’m not getting up again.”“Bossy,” Dylan says, rolling over and out of bed gracelessly.Ryan closes his eyes and counts to ten, takes three deep breaths, and absolutely does not think of the last time Dylan called him that.[Or: 3 times Dylan calls Ryan for cuddling after failed/mediocre hookups and 1 time Dylan gets his damn cuddles in the first place.]





	i got my mind made up this time

**Author's Note:**

> if you or anyone you know is mentioned/tagged in this fic: do your self a favor and just throw whatever device you're reading this on through a woodchipper!!!
> 
> i started this in august when cricket and cj were twitficcing a similar story in a quote tweet of the TFLN above, and well. seven months later here we are. 
> 
> huge thanks to m, s, lj, and the rest of the tlist for the encouragement, even if you didn't know this was the fic you were cheering me on about during writing sprints. 
> 
> PLEASE read the end notes for detailed/untagged warnings. also please let me know if i missed a tag!
> 
> title from trouble by halsey.

**** The first time it happens, Ryan’s worried something is wrong.

 

//

 

Ryan wakes up at two in the goddamn morning to an incessant buzzing under his pillow. It’s spaced out enough where it’s not a phone call, but it’s enough to warrant some type of concern once he gets his wits about him to grab at his phone.

 

**Inbox (4)**

**Dylan // 01:57 // 06/18**

Ryan pick up ur phone

 

**Dylan // 01:57 // 06/18**

Call meeeeee

 

**Dylan // 01:58 // 06/18**

Why is ur phone always on do not disturb when i need u

 

**Dylan // 01:58 // 06/18**

Wake up ur supposed to be my go-to guy

 

Ryan rubs at his eyes, reads the messages once, twice and then he’s calling Dylan before he can even process the screen changing.

Dylan answers on the third ring with a bright, “Hey! I need a favor.”

“You don’t sound like you’re dying,” Ryan grumbles, clears the sleep from his throat.

“I mean, no,” Dylan says, then quickly, “Listen just-- Would you be able to come get me?” 

“Are you drunk?” Ryan asks. He vaguely remembers Dylan saying something about going out tonight, maybe with Mitch, but maybe with Connor. One of them was supposed be the designated driver, that’s all Ryan knows.

Dylan pauses, like he’s considering lying, then lets out a breath. “I’m not… sober.” 

Ryan sighs, swings out of bed and goes on the hunt for sweats and a t-shirt. 

“You still have your Find my Friends on?” he asks, pulls on sweats and toes on his sandals. 

“Mhmm,” Dylan hums, and Ryan wonders how he missed Dylan being intoxicated in the first place. “You’re my favorite and I love you.”

Ryan has to laugh at that, shaking his head.

“Love you too, Pickle. I’m on my way.”

 

/

 

Dylan’s at a house on the party block of University of Toronto’s campus, which is, lucky for Ryan, not very far from his apartment. 

His GPS says he’s pretty much right on top of Dylan’s little blue dot, so he’s driving slow down the block, scanning for his gangly, stupidly intoxicated little brother. 

He doesn’t have to look very hard, because as soon as he gets halfway down the block, there’s a house with all of the lights still on, yellow lights shining onto the otherwise dark street. Dylan’s sitting on the porch steps, red solo cup in hand that he drains when he sees Ryan’s truck pull up. He’s a little wobbly on his feet, but not too bad. Ryan’s seen him in much worse condition -- hell, he’s  _ gotten him  _ in much worse condition.

He’s pointedly ignoring that memory right now, though.

Ryan throws the truck in park and unlocks the door, yawns as Dylan climbs into the passenger seat with a sigh. 

“Morning sunshine,” he says, knocking Ryan’s elbow across the console, and Ryan rolls his eyes. He can’t really be too mad about doing this -- at least Dylan didn’t try to walk to Ryan’s, or god-forbid, drive. 

“You’re buying me Timmies tomorrow,” Ryan responds, flips on the radio and then they’re on their way back. 

They’re maybe five minutes away when Ryan’s curiosity gets the best of him.

“You’re okay, right?”

Dylan hums, almost like he’s just waking up, clears his throat and says, “What? Oh, yeah. Fine.” 

Ryan snorts. “That’s convincing.” 

“I just--” Dylan starts, sighs as he runs his fingers through his hair. “I dunno. I picked up at the bar, and they brought me back to that party, but it was really ‘meh’, you know?”

Ryan hums, stops at a red light. “The party or the sex?” 

Dylan laughs a little and says, “Yes.” 

“Ah,” Ryan manages, because he gets it. Kind of. He turns the corner onto his block.

“Anyway, they, uh--” Dylan pauses, scrubs a hand over his face. “He didn’t want to cuddle after. Which is just, like, a deal breaker. So I called you.” 

Ryan blames the fact that he was woken up in the middle of the night for his inability to form real words, but he does manage some kind of affirming noise as he pulls into his parking garage.

“Surprise,” Dylan says, but he doesn’t sound like this is a party for him. 

“You’re such a tactile little fuck,” Ryan says, once his brain catches up to his mouth. “I’m glad you called me.” 

Dylan’s quiet for a second after Ryan puts the car in park, but eventually says, “Yeah, me too.”

Ryan doesn’t have to look over to see the small smile on his face.   

When they make it upstairs, Dylan sits at the kitchen island and helps himself to a bottle of water, downs half of it in one gulp. 

“You’re staying here tonight, right?” Ryan asks, tossing his keys in the bowl by the door. 

Dylan hums, takes another drink of his water. “I can take the couch.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Ryan says, kicking off his sandals. “We can share.” 

“Are you -- Really?” Dylan sounds relieved, like all he wanted was was for Ryan to suggest that. It breaks his heart a little. 

“You’d really rather sleep on my lumpy ass couch?” Ryan asks, hiding that weird mush of soft feelings by raising an eyebrow. Dylan’s face flushes a little, and Ryan wonders if that was the right call.

“Can I borrow sweats?” he asks, head down as he plays with the cap of his water bottle. 

“Yeah,” Ryan says, smile on his face, heart in his throat. “Come on.”

The search for the sweats Ryan pulled on to go get Dylan was enough of a burden where it’s just easier to strip out of them and kick them over to Dylan. He’s not looking at Ryan as he bends to get them off the floor, but Ryan can see that the tips of his ears have gone pink. 

“I, uh -- I think you still have a toothbrush here,” Ryan says, pulling the covers down all the way from where they were already half undone. He climbs in, pulls his side over his lap as Dylan pads over wordlessly to the en suite. 

He’s messing around on his phone, making sure he has at least one alarm set for a semi-decent hour when Dylan walks back in, sweats riding low on his hips. Ryan didn’t notice earlier, but there’s a few faint red marks along the side of Dylan’s throat, a couple matching ones at his hips. He tries not to stare, but he must not succeed because Dylan follows Ryan’s gaze and instantly brings a hand to scratch at the back of his neck, hiding the marks. 

Dylan climbs in next to Ryan, stays about as far away as he can when Ryan flips the light off, sets his phone on the nightstand. He doesn’t know how long they lay there facing away from each other until Ryan sighs, turns toward Dylan and nudges him.

“C’mere,” he mutters, thinking maybe Dylan would already be asleep. 

He’s not, because he turns over, nearly knocking heads with Ryan as he does. They both huff little laughs before Ryan holds his arm out, an obvious invitation, and Dylan snuggles in. Ryan tries not to think about how easily they fit together, how perfect Dylan’s head lays on his chest.

The deep contented sigh Dylan breathes makes Ryan’s chest tight, and he hopes Dylan can’t hear his pulse pick up. He doesn’t do anything about it aside from snuggling in a little tighter, and Ryan mirrors him, wrapping his arm around Dylan and pulling him close.

If Dylan’s face wasn’t pushed into his chest, Ryan probably wouldn’t have caught the little “Thanks, Ry.” Dylan gave him.

“‘Course, Pickle,” Ryan says, and before he thinks better of it, presses a kiss to the top of his head.

 

/ 

 

The next morning, Ryan is curled around Dylan’s back, their fingers laced together and legs tangled, and for a fleeting moment, he wishes he could stay here forever.

But then his stomach grumbles, and Dylan must be awake too, because he laughs a little. 

“Food?” he asks, voice still raspy with sleep. 

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees, smiling as he messes up Dylan’s already unruly, bed-headed curls.

Ryan rolls out of bed, then as a secondary thought, pulls the covers entirely off of Dylan and onto the floor. The joke is on him, though, because Dylan’s borrowed sweats have shifted, riding even lower on his hips and exposing the very top of his ass. His mouth goes dry, heat rushing to his cheeks.

“No one eats for free,” he says, tossing the covers back over Dylan and ignoring how tight his throat feels. “C’mon. Up.” 

Dylan groans, pushes himself up off of his stomach, arms above his head as he pushes back against his heels. Ryan is very,  _ very  _ glad he put the covers over him again.

 

/

 

Dylan’s almost done with his cereal when he says, “Thanks for last night.” 

“Not a big deal,” Ryan shrugs, takes another drink of his coffee. “I said you could always call me, I wasn’t about to leave you stranded at a frat house.” 

Dylan nods, and his cheeks twinge pink. 

“Seems like you wouldn’t mind getting stranded at a frat house, though,” Ryan jokes, smirks behind a bite of his toast and Dylan goes  _ red _ . 

“I was wondering when you were gonna get me for that,” Dylan admits, small smile on his face as he scratches at the nape of his neck. Ryan remembers the hickeys that were there last night, and notices them again where they’re already a little yellowed. Weak effort, Ryan thinks absently. 

“Thanks for, uh, not being weird about it,” Dylan says, and Ryan’s heart clenches. “You-- you aren’t weird about it, right?”

Ryan raises his eyebrow, tilts his head, says, “Why would I be weird about it?”

Dylan shrugs. There’s more there, but Ryan’s not sure he wants to hear it. 

“I don’t care who you get off with,” he continues, and Dylan huffs a laugh at that, “just as long as you’re not being a dumbass.” 

Dylan smiles at that, just a small one, but Ryan will take it. 

 

//

 

The second time it happens, Ryan’s relieved. 

 

//

 

“--so he’s booking it down to the other end, loses and edge and just  _ eats shit _ ,” JT is saying, but Ryan wasn’t present for the first half of this story. He might be the one who eats shit. He doesn’t really care.

JT’s apartment is packed, all of the GTA guys from the team and then some piled on couches and armchairs to watch the Jay’s game -- even Leds and Anders have shown up since they’re playing the Twins. It’s fun, and Ryan’s enjoying himself but something feels… off. He’s been fiddling with his phone since the bottom of the third inning, locking and unlocking it, re-reading Dylan’s text from earlier tonight over and over. 

 

**Dylan // 6:47pm // 6/29**

goin out tonite and reeeeally dont wanna go back home. can i crash by u??

Ryan sighs as he reads it again, just a light one that nobody notices, but it doesn’t do much to ease the tension in his chest. He said yes, of course, because he knows how home can get over the summer, but now it’s just a waiting game. 

The guys are laughing around him, and when he looks up from his phone, the guys are pelting Leds with popcorn and insults. Twins must’ve taken the lead, then. 

He’s won his waiting game a couple of moments later as his phone chimes in his hand. It’s just a text from Dylan, an address on the east side of town, and Ryan takes it as the out that it is.

“Gotta go rescue the kid,” he says after he’s announced that he’s heading out. “Can’t handle his liquor, the amateur.” 

“Bring him by one of these days,” JT says with clap to Ryan’s shoulder. “We’ll fix that.” 

Ryan rolls his eyes with a smile and a shake of his head, waves to the rest of the guys, and then he’s out. 

As soon as he steps outside, he feels like he can breathe again. 

He shoots a quick text to Dylan to let him know he’s on his way, sets his GPS, and pulls onto the main street. It’s easy to settle into the fifteen minute drive, and before he can think about grabbing his phone to call him, it’s ringing from its place in the cup holder.

“I’m almost to you, I think,” Ryan says, scanning the houses for an address. 

“Are you the headlights?” Dylan asks, laughs a little. “Bro, did you really get LED headlights? That’s a douche move.” 

“I’ll make your ass walk home,” Ryan says, but he doesn’t mean it. Dylan laughs, light and breathy. “Just get in.” 

He hangs up as Dylan’s getting in the car and the first thing that hits him is the tangy smell of weed, the cheap shit that’s easy to bum off of someone at a party. 

“Jesus,” Ryan says, “your friends need to find better shit.”

“It’s good enough,” Dylan says, eyelids hooded and an easy smile on his face. “‘Specially when you’re getting it out of a hot girl’s mouth instead of a pipe.”

Ryan just laughs, shakes his head a little and starts the drive back to his place. Dylan has never had a filter when he’s high.

“So  _ that’s  _ why you didn’t want to go home tonight,” Ryan notes as Dylan’s rolling down the window. Their mom isn’t the biggest fan of her boys accepting drugs at parties, or at all for that matter. It only took Ryan one time coming home high for that message to be heard loud and clear by both Dylan and Matt. 

“Mhmm,” Dylan hums, drapes his arm over the console and consequently over Ryan’s. It would be easy to lace their fingers together, but he doesn’t, resists the urge pretty well. “That, and the girl was pretty fuckin’ hot.” 

“You hook up with her?” Ryan says, and Dylan hums in response, an easy yes.

“Think she was Taylor’s cousin. Or Darren’s,” Dylan says.

Ryan laughs. “Well, they’re brothers, so.” 

“Oh shit, yeah,” says Dylan, like that thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Anyway, she was hot and easy but she fell asleep right after."

It’s Ryan’s turn to hum then, mostly because he doesn’t know what else to say to that. 

“I think I’m just spoiled by all that hooking up with Mitch,” Dylan says, soft and quiet enough where Ryan isn’t even sure he heard him right. “Wouldn’t let me leave without cuddling for a while, first.”

“You and Marner?” Ryan turns a corner, slows at an intersection. Dylan’s too gone to realize how his voice cracked a little with the question, but Ryan knows it was there. 

Dylan laughs a little. “You really didn’t know?” 

Ryan shrugs. “I mean, I barely knew you actually liked guys, so no, I really didn’t.”

“You had  _ some  _ idea,” Dylan says behind a yawn, and well. Yeah, he did, but that’s-- 

That's an entirely different conversation. 

Shrugging, Dylan reaches for the bottle of water Ryan always keeps in his cup holder, takes a long drink from it. Ryan keeps his eyes on the road. 

“He’s just clingy, I guess,” Dylan says, clears his throat a little. 

Ryan laughs, just once as he pulls into his parking spot. “You’re one to talk, fuckin’ octopus.” 

“Yeah, well,” Dylan says, and Ryan hears the dopey grin on his face before he looks over and sees it. “You’re not complaining.” 

Ryan hums, because he’s really not.

“You’re showering before you get in my bed,” Ryan says, because Dylan is a cuddly person in general, but he’s even more cuddly when he’s high. “I’m not gonna have your skunk-weed ass stinking up my sheets.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Dylan says, his voice already muddled with sleep as he leans against the window. 

Ryan smiles, shakes his head and they’re home soon after. 

Dylan does get in the shower when they get home, but he’s taking his sweet time. Ryan is almost about to knock on the door, ask if he drowned, when the water shuts off and Dylan emerges soon after, towel wrapped far too loose around his waist. 

His cheeks are splotched with the same pink that’s traveling down his chest, to the tips of his ears, and well. Getting off affects Ryan the same way, so he doesn’t comment. 

He really wants to comment, but he doesn’t. He’s trying this new thing called  _ boundaries,  _ something that he should’ve tried months ago when he and Dylan got super drunk and -- 

Anyway. At least that explains why he took so long. 

Dylan wordlessly paws through Ryan’s drawer of sweatpants, grabs a pair, drops his towel and tugs them on. 

Ryan absolutely doesn’t look while Dylan’s getting changed. No matter how much he wants to, no matter how badly he wants to turn his head, he doesn’t. He has some semblance of self control after all. 

“You don’t care if I don’t wear a shirt, do you?” Dylan says, voice still lazy and chest still all red and splotchy. 

Ryan wants to do something dramatic. He wants to tell Dylan that yes of course he cares, but that would be a lie. No, what Ryan really wants is to go sleep and feel the warmth of Dylan’s skin on his, to wake up wrapped around Dylan again, wants so badly to ask what exactly Dylan thought about while he—

“You own shirts?” He says instead, and Dylan smiles wide and goofy and carefree, and flops face-first directly in the center of Ryan’s bed. 

“Ry, I’m so tired,” Dylan grumbles, burying his face into Ryan’s pillows. “Your sheets smell like home.”

Ryan’s throat goes dry. “I still use the same stuff mom does,” he manages. 

Dylan shakes his head. “No, like,  _ home _ , you know? Like you. It’s nice.”

Ryan is absolutely not going to think about that at all. He shoves Dylan over and turns down his side of the covers and shuffled under them and does not curl into Dylan’s side. 

“I sure hope my bed would smell like me,” Ryan says, deflecting. 

Dylan hums, like he’s got more to say but his mouth won’t be out with it. 

“Go turn the light off,” Ryan nudges. “You’re still on top of the covers and I’m not getting up again.”

“Bossy,” Dylan says, rolling over and out of bed gracelessly. 

Ryan closes his eyes and counts to ten, takes three deep breaths, and absolutely does not think of the last time Dylan called him that. 

He’s back in bed and under the covers fast enough, and as soon as he is, he’s attached to Ryan’s side. He’s got an arm slung over Ryan’s stomach, face tucked into the crook of his neck, and if Ryan weren’t too busy trying not to do something fucking stupid like get hard, he’d actually think this was nice. 

“Your shower is nice,” Dylan mumbles into Ryan’s neck, lips grazing where Ryan’s pulse is hammering. 

Ryan laughs, quick and nervous. “I know, that’s why I bought the place,” he says. 

“Just for the shower,” says Dylan, and Ryan doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s smiling. 

“Just for the shower,” Ryan agrees.

_ And it’s close to home, _ he doesn’t say. 

Dylan huffs a little laugh, then presses a kiss to Ryan’s shoulder. 

“Love you, Ry,” he says, muffled.

Ryan swallows, presses a kiss to Dylan’s hair.

“Love you, Pickle.”

 

/

 

Ryan wakes up at three-thirty in the morning, too hot and too comfortable where Dylan’s wrapping his arms around him, pulling him close. He’s snoring a little, and Ryan can’t help but smile at it. 

He shifts, trying to worm away from the personal heater that is his brother and -- 

That’s definitely Dylan, hard in his -- in  _ Ryan’s  _ \-- sweatpants, pressing against Ryan’s ass. 

Ryan swallows thickly, tries to keep his breathing even, try and shift away but -- 

Here’s the thing. Ryan knows he should move away. It’s not  _ right,  _ it’s  _ Dylan _ , it’s his fucking  _ brother _ . He shouldn’t want this. 

But there’s a huge difference between ‘shouldn’t’ and ‘doesn’t’.

Dylan shifts, and Ryan’s breath catches in his throat. It’s getting more and more difficult to ignore, the steady thrum of Dylan’s heart against his back contrasting the jackhammering of his own, the feel of Dylan pressing against the small of his back. 

“Dyl,” Ryan manages, voice tight and barely audible. He knows Dylan sleeps like the dead, especially after smoking. It would take more than that to wake him up. 

Ryan takes a deep breath, then another, then turns to face Dylan. In the grand scheme of things wasn’t his smartest idea, because Dylan instantly shifts and throws a leg over Ryan’s and now Dylan’s rocking ever so slightly into Ryan’s thigh. 

“Dylan,” Ryan says a little louder, but Dylan’s eyes are still shut, face still relaxed with sleep. “Are you awake?” 

He doesn’t respond, just keeps pushing his hips into Ryan’s thigh, and god, this is too much, he has to say something, he can’t just let this happen. 

Not again.  

Dylan’s breathing is starting to speed up, and Ryan can just notice his cheeks getting pink from where the streetlight is washing over them through the blinds. There’s no way he’s awake, there’s no way this is right, but Ryan’s just as hard against Dylan’s thigh as Dylan is against his. 

So, he just… lets it happen. 

Ryan can just make out the furrow of Dylan’s brow, the blush on his face creeping up to the highest points of his cheeks and Ryan can’t tell if it would be better or worse for Dylan to wake up right now. 

Dylan hums and it sticks in his throat, a noise that Ryan is  _ not  _ going to call a moan even though he knows that’s exactly what it was. Ryan takes another deep breath, shuts his eyes, overwhelmed with just how much he wants to kiss Dylan right now. 

He settles for pressing his lips to Dylan’s forehead, pushes his thigh even closer to Dylan and Dylan’s breath hitches, hips still rolling. He hums again, and this time Ryan can’t even deny the sound. Not when he’s heard it before. 

“Come on, Dyl,” he hears himself say. “I’ve got you.” 

Dylan curls into Ryan’s side, nose pressing into Ryan’s neck and Ryan can feel his breath coming hard and fast where it’s washing over his skin. He wraps his arm gently around Dylan, scratches lightly at his lower back and Dylan keens, hips stuttering. 

“Mmm,  _ Ry _ ,” Dylan breathes, and Ryan gasps, breath getting caught in his throat and then Dylan’s hips still. 

He’s still breathing heavily, but more in the way of trying to catch his breath, and then there’s a warmth seeping through the layers of clothing separating them that makes Ryan’s head spin. 

His mouth is dry and Dylan’s clinging to him like Ryan’s the only thing keeping him grounded. Even in his sleep, it’s always Ryan. 

Dylan’s breathing goes back to normal after one deep, settling breath, but Ryan’s still hard against him, heart still hammering against his chest. Still, he holds onto Dylan for exactly three minutes before admitting defeat and carefully untangling himself from Dylan’s deathgrip. 

He’s worried for a fraction of a second that he woke Dylan up, but as soon as Dylan starfishes himself across the mattress in search of Ryan’s warmth, the worry is gone. Ryan pads off softly to the ensuite, shutting the door quietly before turning on the light and looking in the mirror.

His face is red and splotchy, eyes blown wide and hair all over the place. Swearing softly under his breath, he tugs his own sweatpants down just enough to unceremoniously get a hand on his dick, flushed red and leaking steadily. 

It takes fewer strokes than he’d like to admit before he’s biting his lip and coming into the palm of his hand, bracing his free hand on the counter as blood rushes in his ears.

He’s blinking the stars from his eyes when he sees the spot on the side of his thigh from where Dylan’s come soaked through their sweats and has to bite his lip again. 

Shaking himself out of it, he tucks himself back into his sweats, and washes his hands before splashing cold water on his face. Patting his face dry, he takes one final deep breath before flipping the light off and going back into the room. 

Dylan’s exactly where Ryan left him, curled into the duvet and face smushed into the pillow. He looks peaceful and innocent and not at all like he just got himself off grinding into his brother’s thigh. 

Ryan has half a mind to sleep on the couch for the rest of the night, but his worse judgement wins out and he gets back into bed, shoving Dylan as lightly as he can to make more space for himself. 

The alarm clock on the bedside table reads 4:18, and Ryan sighs, shuts his eyes even though he knows he won’t be sleeping at all for the rest of the night. 

 

/ 

 

At 7:38, Ryan decides coffee needs to be a thing in his life if he’s going to survive whatever hellish workout JT is going to put him through today. Besides, Dylan will probably roll out of bed sooner rather than later, and he’d rather not be in the room when Dylan realizes what happened. Saving them all the embarrassment, and providing caffeine? Ryan should win brother of the fucking year. 

He’s two cups in and halfway through some think piece about how Eberle might be traded next season when Dylan makes his way into the kitchen, hair damp and face red. 

“Please tell me you--”

“Coffee. Yeah. And your nasty creamer is--”

“It’s not nasty!”

“--in the fridge, top shelf,” Ryan finishes, taking a long drink of his mug as Dylan takes his favorite mug out of the cabinet. 

Ryan shakes his head as he pours far too much creamer, followed by a splash of coffee into the mug and takes a drink. He’s not meeting Ryan’s eyes, and Ryan doesn’t know if that’s better than Talking About It.

“You training with JT today?” Dylan asks after he’s had a significant amount of his coffee-flavored milk. 

Ryan hums and nods, scrolls on his phone a little more. “Yeah, we’re meeting at noon. Coming with?”

Dylan stops, face going bright red as he scratches at the nape of his neck. “Raincheck. I’m, uh. I’m helping dad with the T-Bird today.” 

Ryan lets him have the out. “Yeah, raincheck.” 

 

X

 

Ryan wants to say it was a mistake. 

 

X

 

They’re on the wrong side of a few drinks, camped out in the basement while everyone else at the party is either passed out around the house or long gone. Judging by how Ryan can’t see any of the usual stress that lived on Dylan’s shoulders, it’s pretty likely crossfaded, especially since Ryan saw Mikey packing a bowl earlier. 

“You good?” Ryan asks, knocking his knee against Dylan’s. 

Dylan nods, smiling all dopey, not a care in the world. “I’m great.” 

His smile is contagious and Ryan can feel his own spreading across his face. “You’re a fuckin’ dork.” 

“Yeah,” Dylan shrugs, “but I’m your dork, so.” 

Ryan rolls his eyes, shoves at Dylan’s shoulder, which turns into a shoving match, which somehow ends up with Dylan tackling Ryan to the ground and then -- 

Dylan’s face is really, really close to Ryan’s. 

He can smell the cheap whiskey and the even cheaper weed on Dylan’s breath and it’s objectively gross but it’s also reminiscent of summers when Dylan was just barely not old enough to drink, when Ryan started to take him to things to contribute to his delinquency, just like JT did for Ryan. 

“Uh,” says Ryan, eyes flickering to Dylan’s lips and back up to his eyes again. Dylan smiles something small and secretive, tongue darting out to wet his lips.   
  
“You’ve thought about it,” he says, and it’s not a question.

It’s not a question, and Ryan knows what he’s talking about. 

He’s talking about summer days at the pool and looks that lasted a bit too long. He’s talking about always being the best of friends, maybe a bit too close for comfort at times. He’s talking about Ryan calling Dylan every night when he first made the league, falling asleep on the phone. He’s talking about Dylan being jealous of every person Ryan ever brought home. He’s talking about Dylan falling asleep on Facetime with him when Dylan was homesick in his first year in the O. 

"Once or twice," Ryan bluffs, a little brave from the alcohol in his system, the weight of Dylan above him. "You?" 

Dylan smirks. "Once or twice."

Ryan takes a deep breath, then another, then finally manages to smile. 

“It’s a little fucked up, Dylan,” says Ryan, barely a centimeter from Dylan’s lips. 

Dylan shrugs. “But you want it, too?” 

“If you’re trying to convince me, you don’t have to. Just fucking get on with it--” 

“Bossy much?” Dylan quips, like this is just typical brother-to-brother banter. 

It’s what Ryan needs to find the will to get a hand out of Dylan’s grip, bring it to the back of Dylan’s neck and tug him forward, closing the gap between them. 

 

/ 

 

They wake up in Dylan’s full-sized bed upstairs, far from the basement where they were last night, kiss bruised lips and wandering touches like they would never have this again.

It was entirely likely that they wouldn't.

Ryan’s mouth feels like a trashcan, Dylan’s snoring like a bear with a head cold, as per usual when he’s super fucking hungover, and Ryan’s afraid to check to see if he’s still wearing all of his clothes. 

He closes his eyes, counts to ten and peeks under the covers. 

Jeans, t-shirt, flannel. All accounted for. Same for Dylan. 

The jostling wakes Dylan up and he instantly squints, covering his eyes from the sunlight streaming in. 

“Hey,” he mutters, voice wrecked with sleep. 

Ryan swallows. “Hey.” 

Dylan tucks his face into Ryan’s neck, throws an arm over him and snuggles in. 

“Do you even remember anything after beer pong?” Dylan says, muffled where his face is pressed into Ryan’s chest. 

After beer pong was one more bowl for Dylan and Mikey, a makeshift ‘chel tourney, another mostly-vodka vodka redbull for Ryan, and -- 

Yeah. He remembers. He’s not sure how he could forget.

“Not really,” he lies. It’s better this way. 

Dylan doesn’t say anything for exactly nine agonizing seconds.

“Me either,” he says, finally. 

 

X

 

It wasn’t a mistake, at all. 

 

 

X

The third time it happens, Ryan doesn't know how to feel. Well, he does, but not until later. 

 

//

 

Ryan doesn’t hear from Dylan for a couple weeks after his weird raincheck, and honestly, it’s fucking with him a lot more than he originally thought. 

Their text thread is weirdly void of it’s usual emoji-ridden conversation, just sterile things like ‘ _ mom wants you over for dinner _ ’ and ‘ _ have you seen matty’s charger’  _ and Ryan wonders if this is how it’s going to be from now on. 

Typed in the chat box, ready to send on Ryan’s end: “can we forget this ever happened.” 

He doesn’t have the heart to send it. He doesn’t want to forget it. He’s not sure how he could. 

So, he doesn’t send it. He responds to things in their groupchat with Matty, their groupchat with the McLeods, their groupchat with their parents  _ and  _ Matty, their groupchat with --

Jesus, they need to consolidate some of these. 

Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that they haven’t talked just the two of them in over a week, and that’s weird for them.

The point is that Ryan misses him. Full stop. 

He’s doing fuck-all but watching whatever House Hunters marathon happens to be on TV when Dylan’s ringtone starts blaring from where Ryan’s phone is on the side table. 

“Hey, what’s--” 

“Okay, I don’t know if you’re still pissed at me or whatever,” Dylan says without preamble, “but I would really love it if you curbed that for a minute and came to get me.”

Ryan turns off the TV. “Pissed at you? Dylan, what the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Just--” Dylan sighs, and it crackles in Ryan’s ear. “Forget it, can you come get me?”

He’s already up, grabbing his keys and jamming his feet into his sneakers. 

“Yeah, Dyl,” he says. “I’m on my way.” 

 

/

 

He follows his GPS to Dylan’s location and the area is familiar, maybe from one of the other times he’s come to save Dylan’s ass from whatever person he picks up that isn’t good enough for him. 

Whatever. It’s fine. 

The GPS announces that he’s arrived just as he spots Dylan walking down the sidewalk toward his truck. He doesn’t call, just comes up to where Ryan’s parked the car and gets in. 

“Are you okay?” Ryan asks as Dylan buckles himself in. He can see the ghost of a hickey forming at the base of his throat and he has to count backwards from five not to get upset about it.

“Fine,” Dylan snaps. “Let’s just go.” 

Ryan throws the car in drive and he just goes. 

The drive to Ryan’s apartment feels longer than usual, and Dylan seems weirdly sober for a ‘come get me’ call, but he’s here and he still called Ryan, so he’s going to take what he can get here.

“We’re talking about this later,” Ryan says, no-nonsense. 

Dylan snorts. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Ryan echoes. “You wanna be a brat, that’s your fucking prerogative. But you still called me, so that has to count for something, and you can’t even tell me it doesn’t.”

Dylan sighs and it looks like all the fight has just drained right out of him. 

“Okay,” he says, voice small and a little hurt. 

“Okay,” Ryan agrees, turning a corner. 

 

/ 

 

The door is barely shut behind them when Dylan kicks off his shoes, throws his phone on the couch and proclaims, “I fucked up.” 

Ryan stops, tilts his head as he looks at Dylan where he’s got a hand scratching at the nape of his neck, the other jammed in the pocket of his hoodie. 

“I’m gonna let you process those thoughts for a minute,” Ryan says, carefully, before going to grab a bottle of water from the fridge for himself, stopping in the pantry to grab Dylan a Gatorade. 

Dylan’s got his back against the doorway to the kitchen, head resting on the wooden frame, eyes shut. Ryan takes the spot opposite of him, nudges him to hand him his Gatorade. He takes it, cracks the seal and takes a long drink. 

“So. You fucked up,” Ryan says. 

Dylan sighs. “I got picked up at the bar and the guy was, like, such a good dude.”

Confused as he is, Ryan waits and just listens. 

“So everything was going great, like we hit it off really well, and he was so funny, and really hot, and he was just a great kisser, you know? It was just really nice and it just--” he stops, sighs sharply. 

Ryan furrows his eyebrows. “Did something --” 

“No, Jesus,” Dylan says, exasperated. “I would’ve fucking decked him, give me a little credit.”

That eases the anger that started to bubble in Ryan’s chest, at least. “What was it then?” 

“He took me to his place and we were getting into it and I just--” Dylan stops again, looks down at his hands. “I called him someone else’s name.” 

Ryan can feel the secondhand embarrassment deep in his gut. He’s been there, albeit not in the exact same circumstance.

“Well that’s not too--”

“I called him Ryan,” Dylan says, like if he didn’t say it right then, he wouldn’t have said it at all.

The odds that Ryan’s face is as calm as he wants it to be are slim to none, and judging by the way Dylan winces when he looks up at him, he’s right about that. 

“Dyl--”

“I remember everything about the party, Ry,” Dylan says, like he’s practiced saying this in the mirror. “All of it. From the first drink, to everything that happened in the basement.” 

Ryan’s heart is hammering in his chest, everything from that night playing in his head over and over like a fucking reminder that he’s fucked up, that he took advantage of his kid fucking brother, that -- 

“I don’t regret it,” Dylan continues, proving that Ryan’s heart is a neon flashing sign on his goddamn sleeve right now. “I don’t. At all. Before you start thinking that you ruined me or whatever the fuck is going through your head right now.” 

“You wanted it, too,” Ryan says, finding his voice finally. 

Dylan nods. “I wanted it, too.”

“Okay,” Ryan says, the word sticking in his throat. “Fuck, okay, that’s. God, Dylan.” 

Dylan smiles, small and a little sheepish. “I still want it. And I know it’s fucked up or whatever, but, like,” he shrugs. “If the shoe fits.” 

Ryan laughs, just once, softly. “You’re a little unreal, do you know that?” 

Dylan manages a smile at that, almost a real one, nearly reaching his eyes. “Are we done talking about our feelings because I really want to fucking kiss you.” 

“Jesus Christ, Dylan,” Ryan says, shaking his head, smiling as he takes the two steps that puts himself into Dylan’s space. 

He hesitates when he gets there, sliding his hand to the back of Dylan’s neck, nuzzling his nose against Dylan’s. 

“You’re sure?” Ryan asks, one last time. 

He feels more than hears Dylan laugh. 

“Shut up,” he says, and Ryan doesn’t even have time to argue before Dylan’s lips are on his, firm, and sure, and  _ so _ much better sober. 

It’s almost too easy how they fit together, how their lips meet, how they read each other. 

They’ve always been able to, in every situation. It makes sense, especially here of all places. 

It also makes sense as they make their way down the hallway, and in how they spend five minutes making out against Ryan’s bedroom door, and in how Dylan draws up the play like he’s always been known to do. 

The amount of time they spend just making out in his bed eases something in Ryan’s chest that he didn’t know was there, and it’s not until Dylan’s on top of him, straddling his hips and nipping at the hinge of his jaw that Ryan finds his voice again.

“Last time you were here,” he breathes, hands carding through Dylan’s unruly curls as he mouths at Ryan’s pulse point. 

Dylan hums an acknowledgement, working his way down to Ryan’s collarbone, sucking a mark there as well. 

“Seems like you had a pretty nice dream,” Ryan says, tugging at Dylan’s hair a bit to get his attention. 

Dylan stops, looks up at Ryan, the flush on his cheeks trailing all the way down his chest. “Wait, what do you--” 

Ryan smiles, scratches at the nape of Dylan’s neck. “Dreamt about rubbing off against me, didn’t you?” 

“How did you--” Dylan starts, eyes wide. “Oh, my god, it wasn’t a dream.” 

Ryan kisses him, slow and filthy, letting his hands run all the way down the expanse of Dylan’s back. “Nope,” he says easily, after they break to breathe. “It really wasn’t.”

Dylan groans, sets his head against Ryan’s collarbone. “I thought you hated me after that.” 

“God, no,” Ryan insists, bringing Dylan’s lips to his again, kissing him quick once, then twice. “It was so hot, Dyl. Almost fucking lost it with you rubbing against me.” 

“ _ Ryan _ ,” Dylan whispers, hips canting forward into Ryan’s lap. “Oh, my god.” 

“Seemed so eager,” Ryan continues, drawing the blunt edge of his nails across Dylan’s lower back and Dylan moans, low and shameless. 

“Should’ve woken me up,” Dylan says into Ryan’s chest.

“I wanted to, so bad,” Ryan admits, rocking his own hips up to meet the grind of Dylan’s. “I just -- I didn’t know if you remembered.” 

Dylan kisses him again, and again, and again until Ryan’s lungs are aching and his lips are bruised. He nips at Dylan’s lower lip, and in turn, Dylan tugs at Ryan’s joggers. 

“Okay?” he asks, fingers dipping below the waistband. 

“You’re fucking asking,” Ryan says, smiling and so fucking endeared. “Yeah, Dyl, it’s okay.” 

“Okay,” Dylan agrees, smiling before dipping down and pressing a kiss to the jut of Ryan’s hip.

Dylan makes quick work of Ryan’s joggers, then his own jeans, and then it’s nothing but smooth skin against the soft cotton of his sheets as they lay side by side. There’s a beautiful blush on the highest points of Dylan’s cheekbones and Ryan wants to kiss it, so he does, because he can. Because they can have this. 

He can run his hands down Dylan’s side and make him shiver, he can kiss the tip of his nose, he can wrap his hand around Dylan and stroke him off, because Dylan  _ wants  _ this. Wants  _ Ryan. _

“Quit teasing,” Dylan says as Ryan dances his fingers over Dylan’s stomach, a barely there touch that has goosebumps raising. “Come on, Ry, please.” 

“Bossy,” Ryan quips, kissing Dylan hard as he finally,  _ finally  _ wraps his hand around Dylan and pulls easily. Dylan hums into Ryan’s mouth, enough of a distraction where Ryan doesn’t even realize that Dylan is taking him in hand, easily matching Ryan’s pace. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Ryan groans, muffled where he’s still pressing messy, open mouthed kisses to Dylan’s lips. 

Ryan feels like his skin is on fire, every nerve lit up like fireworks on fucking Canada Day. It’s too easy to push into the grip of Dylan’s fist, to push his lips into Dylan’s, to press impossibly closer. 

“Ry,” Dylan says, breathing heavy. “I need-- It’s so much. _ Please _ .”

Ryan damn near sees stars, dizzy with his name coming from Dylan’s mouth like that, with the feel of him stroking Ryan off like he’s known what to do for years. It’s intoxicating, every touch on the right side of too much. 

“Come on, Dyl,” Ryan says, presses his lips to Dylan’s forehead, exactly like he did a week ago. “I’ve got you.” 

Dylan pushes his hips forward once, twice, and then he’s coming with a groan, mouthing at Ryan’s neck as he shudders through it, spilling onto the sheets, Ryan’s hand. 

“Holy fucking shit,” Dylan manages, catching his breath. He swipes some of his come off of Ryan’s hand before he gets back with the program, stroking Ryan off with purpose.

“Oh my  _ god,” _ Ryan gasps, rocking his hips into Dylan’s hand. “ _ Dylan _ , Jesus  _ Christ.” _

“Yeah, Ry,” Dylan says, lazy and come-stupid. “Come on.” 

Dylan nips at the hinge of Ryan’s jaw, gives two more pulls, and then Ryan’s spilling into his hand, onto Dylan’s stomach, and adding to the mess on the sheets. 

“Jesus,” Ryan breathes, chest still heaving and blood rushing in his ears. 

Dylan laughs, light and breathless before pressing a kiss to Ryan’s shoulder. “Not quite.” 

“Oh my fucking god,” Ryan laughs, grabbing the pillow from under his head and smacking Dylan with it. “You’re unbelievable.” 

When Dylan tosses the pillow off of his face, he’s got a shit eating grin on his face, and Ryan wants to kiss it off, so he does.

 

//

 

The path is a familiar one at this point, at least. He’s got enough friends around the League where he’s picking people up from this specific Glendale Marriott multiple times in a month, sometimes multiple times in a week.

This time, though? Well, Connor isn’t the Edmonton Oiler that Dylan is on his way to pick up. 

Dylan pushes a couple buttons on his steering wheel controls and then the speaker system is ringing with his phone. 

“Hey loser, about time,” Ryan answers, and Dylan can hear the smile in his voice. 

Dylan laughs. “I’ll leave your ass to deal with shitty hotel room service.” 

“You’ll do no such thing,” Ryan says, calling Dylan’s bluff. “Are you the bright red Audi? Tell me Demers didn’t turn you into that much of a tool.” 

“Just get in the car, asshole,” Dylan says easily, hanging up the call as he pulls up to the hotel. 

Ryan climbs in a minute later, grabs Dylan’s hand where it’s resting on the center console and kisses the back of it. 

“Hey,” he says, pressing another quick kiss before linking his fingers with Dylan’s and setting their arms on the console, side by side. 

“Hey yourself,” Dylan echoes, steals his hand away to throw the car in drive, linking it with Ryan’s right away after. 

They haven’t been driving for five minutes before Ryan squeezes Dylan’s hand and says, “you look too hot for my own good.”

Dylan laughs. “You mean for  _ my  _ own good?”

“Nope. You heard me,” Ryan says, taking his hand from Dylan’s and setting it on Dylan’s thigh, maybe a touch higher than it should be. “For  _ my  _ own good.” 

“We have to go to dinner, Ryan,” Dylan tries, weakly, but fuck he’s missed this. Even the weight of Ryan’s hand on him has his face flushing. 

Ryan hums, like he’s considering something, so Dylan steals a glance at him when they pull up to a stop light. Dylan’s not dumb -- he knows Ryan’s taking in the nearly empty stretch of highway surrounding them, can practically see the wheels turning in his head.

“Absolutely not,” Dylan says, smirk on his face. “I know what you’re thinking, and we are  _ not  _ risking our lives because you can’t wait until after dinner.” 

“We got away with it in Edmonton!” 

Dylan scoffs. “Road head on a gravel road in bumfuck nowhere Canada is  _ much  _ different than road head on the fucking one-oh-one.” 

Ryan smirks right back, shifts his hand a little higher. 

“What exit is your place off of?” 

Dylan laughs, rolls his eyes, and takes a detour. Dinner can wait.

 

**Author's Note:**

> -there's a scene in which ryan wakes up in the middle of the night to find dylan (who is still entirely asleep) physically aroused and having an erotic dream (about ryan) which is causing dylan to get off by rubbing off against ryan. ryan tries to wake up dylan with no success. ryan also gets turned on and ends up removing himself from the situation after dylan gets off and gets himself off in the bathroom while dylan is _still_ asleep in the next room. dylan doesn't know this wasn't a dream until later in the fic. 
> 
> -there is one line where ryan questions if dylan was pressured into sex by someone he hooked up with, but dylan immediately assure's ryan that he was not pressured/the situation was consensual. 
> 
> -implied/referenced underaged drinking: there's a line where it's referenced that ryan used to take dylan to parties when he was under the legal drinking age, just like JT had for ryan when he was younger. dylan was not forced on these outings, he wanted to come with. 
> 
> if there's anything else you'd like to be tagged, please let me know. 
> 
> brief mentions/sightings of mitch marner, darren and taylor raddysh, connor mcdavid, john tavares, a mini new york islanders ensemble, and mikey mcleod.


End file.
